


The Faithful Servant

by ramiella



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Beholding Avatar Martin Blackwood, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Morally Grey Character, Next update April 2021, Shapeshifting, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:14:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29195142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ramiella/pseuds/ramiella
Summary: Jonah Magnus is a careful man. He screens his employees thoroughly, making sure they’re exactly where they belong. If he nudges them into danger so his plans could come into fruition, well, that’s none of their business, is it?So when a servant of Beholding mysteriously appeared the week after his new Head Archivist was appointed, he finds all the pieces he had meticulously placed have been rearranged.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 24
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings:  
> Decapitation, death and reanimation  
> Consumption of alcohol  
> Mentions of drug use, domestic violence, cheating, stalking and rape ( the scene starts at "Martin wakes up from a long, dreamless sleep, to the sound of angry voices shouting outside his home." and ends at "“No, he won’t. Not if I have a say in it.” He opened his door. “Come here, let me patch you up.”")

_For the first time in his journey, Martin learned the impersonality of death._

_He Knew that he died. There’s no way he could survive a strike that severed his head cleanly. For the last few seconds of consciousness, he listened to the Distortion’s delighted laughter, whispered Jon’s name weakly like a prayer, before everything dissolved in darkness._

_He failed. Years of playing the avatars of every dread power he could find in London, and he didn’t even come close to his ultimate goal. The comfort that it wasn’t Elias who killed him barely eased the pain._

_Martin didn’t know if his deal with the Ceaseless Watcher would hold up on his death. He read about avatars whose deaths were the catalyst to becoming an extension of their patron, and some who are just plain impossible to kill. He didn’t know if Jonah Magnus had experienced death first hand before Martin got to him at the end of his travel. He likes to think he’s the only one capable of truly putting the bastard down._

_The empty street where the Distortion brought him was quiet. Passersby knew to avoid this route; muggings and killings were the norm when one ends up here._

_At the stroke of midnight, Martin dies with no one to witness his murder._

_At the stroke of midnight, right in the corner turning to the scene of the crime, footsteps of a man echoed against the grimy brick walls. The man stopped in front of the corpse, staring with curiosity. He knelt down and gently lifted the head with both hands, pressing a light kiss on Martin’s slack and cold lips._

_“It’s not over, is it? Wake up, Martin. There’s work to do.”_

_For a minute, nothing happened._

_Then the headless body sat up straight, like a machine jolted to life. Its hands reached for the head, carefully aligning the cut on its neck. The man watched (is always watching) as Martin Blackwood’s reanimated corpse struggled with living again._

_Martin blinked once, then twice, then stared at him for a really long time without blinking._

_The man reached out, thumb brushing against the splatter of blood on his plump cheek. The skin contact seemed to awaken something in Martin, and he screamed. The man could do nothing but watch, lovingly devouring his fear._

* * *

The bar was loud, teeming with patrons and the typical party goers despite it being Sunday. Two bartenders rush behind the counter to fulfill an endless line of orders, the hurried turns of jiggers and mixers periodically interrupted by patrons shouting incoherently. Drunk and boisterous customers receive a glare with their sangrias, often ignored due to how sloshed they are from the alcohol and the atmosphere.

Martin slowly sipped his tall glass of Long Island iced tea, knowing that if he gave in to his emotions now he’d be nursing a terrible hangover tomorrow. Just because it’s Sunday night doesn’t mean he can bail out of being a responsible adult, especially now he’s pushing to thirty.

He sat on the far end of a wall mounted table, facing the floor to ceiling glass wall overlooking the busy city of London. A group of women giggled and gossiped beside him, some of them too tipsy to notice that they were leaning on his side which he steadily ignored. He already had a fair share of strangers getting friendly with him since he ordered a drink, but he’s not here to find someone to warm his bed. He’s here to forget the shitty first week of his new job.

Just remembering Jon’s irate voice made him scowl at his drink. Who the fuck does Jonathan Sims think he is? Just because he’s the new boss doesn’t mean he gets to act like all high and mighty. If what he knew of every Archive employee’s backgrounds is to be believed, then he doesn’t even qualify for the position of Head Archivist. He remembers Tim shooting him an apologetic smile after Jon stormed off the break room, snapping at Martin like his existence offended him.

He laced his fingers together and pressed his forehead against his knuckles. The gnawing fear that maybe Jon was acting like that was because he found out about Martin’s CV, about his lies, and it was only the shock of his promotion and a bigger responsibility that was holding him back from telling Mr. Bouchard about it.

The music was so loud it hurt his chest with vibrations, accentuating the rapid rise of his heartbeat.

_Calm down._

Martin took a deep breath, and slowly released it from his nose. There’s no point in worrying. As much as he hates the way Jon is treating him, he can’t afford to lose his job. Mum’s new treatment is going well and he’d hate to jeopardize her condition just because Martin can’t handle some verbal abuse.

The group of women beside him had dispersed to the dance floor, and a few seats beside him were vacated. Some of the patrons rushed to the seats, and he gave a sideway glance to the guy who sat directly beside him, before concentrating on his drink again.

“You come here often?”

Martin paused mid sip. He looked at the man, who’s swirling a white russian between his thin, scarred fingers. Now that he looked closer, the man seemed to have a lot of scars. His arms were pockmarked, and on his right hand looked like a nasty burn. His unruly, shoulder-length hair tied in a hasty ponytail only partially blocked the white scar running across his neck. He smiled at Martin softly, as if they were close friends instead of strangers.

He’s beautiful, in a way Martin could only describe with sullen poems.

He cleared his throat. “N-No, I only come here to unwind. Stressful week, y’know?”

The man nodded, turning his head to look at the view in front of them. Martin shyly did the same, willing his blood flow on cheeks to calm down. _Handsome men tend to do that_ , he internally sighed.

They sat in silence for a while, before the man told him he’s currently on a trip looking for someone. Whoever that someone is, Martin guessed it’s a pretty important person for this guy. 

“Ah, but it can wait. I can find him easily anyway.”

“Did he run away or something?”

The man grinned, finishing his drink before answering. “I don’t think he’d do that. We just got separated and he ended up here before I did.” 

Martin smiled back. “I hope you find him soon, then.” He blushed under the man’s intense gaze, as if he’s trying to commit everything he’s seeing into memory. He shivered when his companion leaned close, his soft smile turning mischievous.

“How about we go outside? Just to get some fresh air.”

Martin hummed, tilting his head to the side and biting his lip. “Just to get some fresh air?”

The intense gaze turned predatory. _Oh dear lord, what have I done._ Martin can’t find it in himself to feel guilty though. He finished his drink without breaking eye contact. The man seemed content to just look at him.

The air outside the bar was cool, and the change in temperature slowly sobered him up. They slowly wandered away from the bar, admiring the colorful city lights near the establishment.

“So, uh, this is awkward to ask, but may I know your name?”

Martin snickered. “I’ll tell mine if you tell yours first.”

“Hmm, guess we'll never know each other’s name then.”

They burst out laughing, leaning against each other as they swayed. When they managed to catch their breath, Martin wiped the stray happy tears from his eye and adjusted his glasses. The stranger shook his head with a warm smile, and reached out to tuck his hair behind his ear.

If Martin was less experienced, he would’ve stammered and messed up whatever is going on. But something about this man feels comfortable, and only the reddening of his cheeks gave away the whirlwind of butterflies in his stomach. Spurred with a sudden bout of confidence, he took the man’s hand and entwined their fingers.

They walked close, hands held together loosely. Martin felt like a teenager again, sneaking out at weekends to spend time with his first boyfriend. The man’s voice was calming, talking about how he finds London busy, and about a cozy house he stayed in Scotland.

They reached a deserted park, the lamp posts just barely illuminating the place. He led them to a bench and sat down, feeling the man’s fingers tighten around his. From here, the noise of London seemed muffled. It’s just him and a handsome stranger who he knows he’ll want to go home with tonight. Talks of travels turned into hobbies, and into favorite places, and into favorite food. Martin has never felt at ease with another person like this, despite spending almost three hours with a man whose name he doesn’t know.

It was twenty minutes before midnight when the man squeezed his hand and moved closer, pressing his forehead against Martin’s. 

“May I kiss you?” He asked quietly.

Martin kissed him in reply.

His lips were slightly chapped but warm from the alcohol. Delicate fingers held his chin, tipping his head up to deepen the kiss. Martin closed his eyes as he opened his lips, accepting the wet heat pushing into him.

_It’s not over, is it? Wake up, Martin. There’s work to do._

A sudden jolt of terror ran through him, then hot white pain exploded in his head. His ears rang from the shock, eyes watering on instinct. The man tightened his grip on his chin, tongue swiping inside of his mouth, ignoring the strangled cry that escaped his throat. With the pain came memories, cutting through his panic. Memories of pain and fear and death and destruction: first the memory of waking up fatherless, then the worms chasing him from the basement to the archives, seeing a friend become wrong in every aspect, the death of Jonathan Sims-

The man bit his lip lightly as if to ground him. The tears were now constant, as every horror he’d experience crammed into his brain like an overflowing fountain.

_A closed door, behind it is a sea of horrors. Martin struggled to keep it closed. The door opens despite his efforts. It’s drowning him, and he’s helpless to stop as it chokes him._

He blinked when the man pulled back, a string of saliva connecting their lips. Martin stared at him, still struggling to differentiate his current reality from those received memories. Jon smiled that soft smile of his when he wanted to reassure Martin, stroking his cheek with his free hand.

“Alright there?”

Martin shoved his face against Jon’s shoulder and sobbed. “W-What the hell, Jon.”

Jon snorted, rubbing his back and gently running his fingers through his hair. “Take your time, love.”

“Ew, don’t call me that.” 

They dissolved into giggles. Martin let him wipe the tears away, and accepted the gentle kisses on his face. It didn’t take too long for his memories to settle in properly, and as long as he concentrated on Jon’s display of affection, he felt the urge to vomit slowly fade away. After a few minutes, Martin pulled back and looked at him in the eyes. The swirl of Beholding’s power was there, like an eye of the storm, just waiting for some poor soul with a story to tell.

With the same intensity of a tidal wave, Martin loved and feared this man. 

“At least you’re only late for five days this time.” He grinned, and Jon groaned. 

“Give me a break. Time is hard for me sometimes.”

Martin laughed. “Not like you to not be a pain in the arse about details. But that’s okay.” He kissed him on the cheek, and returned his adoring stare. 

* * *

Martin’s apartment is small and cluttered, but he had always felt at home in it. He opened the front door and flicked the switch, light flooding the living room. He plopped on the couch, watching as Jon discarded his shoes by the entrance and went straight for him.

“We need a phone for you. Just in case I need your help.”

“I can find you easily, you know?”

Martin sighed. “Yes, but sometimes I just need some information. Texting is the easiest way. Also, do you think Elias knows now?”

Jon hummed, wrapping his arms around him. “No, not now. Probably tomorrow. He’s busy watching your archivist.”

“Eugh. Don’t call him my archivist. I still haven’t forgotten how much of an asshole you are before.” Jon tightened his embrace, rubbing his face against Martin’s shoulder. He laughed, patting his scarred hands. “It’s fine, I just think he’s extra shitty this time. I don’t know his deal, but it’s fine.”

“Probably the inferiority complex. And the pressure from Elias.” Martin snorted. “It’s true. Anyway, what are you going to do tomorrow about him?”

“Nothing. If I’m lucky, Elias wouldn’t notice until lunch. Either way he’ll probably call for me.” He sighed, relaxing against the hold. “What about you? Any plans for tomorrow?”

“Look for a phone. I’ll text you once I get one.” When Martin yawned, he released him and rubbed his hands against his broad back. “Come now, let’s go to bed.”

Martin nodded, now feeling the late effects of alcohol. He should probably brush his teeth first, then change clothes. He tells Jon to go first while he cleans up, and the man goes to the bedroom with a smile.

He filled a plastic cup with water and slowly went through the motions of cleaning his mouth. Good thing that he met Jon while he’s only on his first glass, he didn’t think it would be more bearable when he’s hungover and having a funnel of fears pointed on his brain. After rinsing his mouth, he rubbed his face, feeling a familiar fatigue blanketing him.

_I’m back. I need to keep going._

He changed to a threadbare shirt and the softest pair of sweatpants he could find. When he entered the room, Jon’s already lying down on his side at the center of his small bed. Martin smiled and climbed beside him, pulling the scarred man close and pressing a kiss on his hair. Jon let out a small sound, burrowing his face against Martin's chest.

“Good night, Jon.”

* * *

Martin wakes up from a long, dreamless sleep, to the sound of angry voices shouting outside his home.

He groaned and turned to his side, pulling up the blanket to cover his ears. The shouting got louder, followed by several thumping, and finally a crash.

He was immediately at his feet, grabbing the sweatpants he discarded last night on the floor and pulling them on. He combed his messy hair with his fingers, and went straight to the door, and to the flat next to him.

A shrill cry came from behind the door of his neighbor, one he had tried to block out of fear. Once upon a time he would cower and try to help when the threat of violence is gone.

_Everything’s different now._

He knocked impatiently at the door, his bare foot tapping against the cold tile of the hallway.

The voices stopped, periodically interrupted by a sniffle. Loud, thudding footsteps approached the door, and Martin braced himself.

“Who the fuck- argh!” The man, who he knew was his neighbor’s ex boyfriend, crumpled at the entrance cupping his broken nose. Martin grabbed his hair and dragged him down the emergency exit. He knows that if he let the rising fear of getting decked back drown his adrenaline, he’d lose his footing and then he’d have to run.

The man grabbed his wrist and tried to twist his arm, but slammed his head on the metal railings when he tripped on the stairs. Martin sighed and let him go, crossing his arms.

“Jesse Gray, thirty two years old, unemployed with a cocaine addiction. Two cases of petty theft. Sexual assault to various women, and now you’re harassing my neighbor. Let’s see what else is there, shall we?” 

Static crackled between them, and a heavy pressure descended. The man, still clutching his bleeding nose, looked up in horror as he felt something squirming inside his head. Martin stared at him with blank eyes, before his voice sliced through the silence like a knife.

“Did it feel good, watching Penny cry and struggle as you forced yourself into her? Did you like it when you punched her to shut her up, when she stopped fighting in fear of her life? Did you enjoy watching her face break while you kissed another woman? Did it fill you with a rush of power, when you followed Marissa from her job, when she looked at you with fear? Was it fulfilling to think of them as nothing but your property? Of course, it was. That’s the only thing that makes you feel nowadays. How about we make you feel something else?”

He stepped forward, and Jesse scrambled back with a cry. The static rose with every step, until it irritated his ears.

**“Ceaseless Watcher, see through this man’s filth, all the terror he inflicted to others. Observe his own fears, and make him feel. Every. Single. One. Of-”**

The emergency exit door opened, and Jon stepped in with a thin smile.

“Martin, you’re going to be late.” He looked at the cowering man with disinterest. “I’ll deal with this one.”

Martin sighed and went back to his apartment. Marissa stood outside his door, her entire body shaking. He didn’t need Beholding’s power to know about the bruises on her neck and chest.

“Do you want me to call the police?” He asked quietly.

Marissa shook her head. “He… he has friends who can bail him out. And then h-he’ll just come back t-to-”

“No, he won’t. Not if I have a say in it.” He opened his door. “Come here, let me patch you up.”

* * *

Jon knew something was wrong that day when he stepped into the archives and saw Tim and Sasha huddling together in a corner, eyeing Martin’s desk. His messenger bag is there, and the reports he was compiling last week is held down by a paperweight, but the man himself is nowhere to be found.

He turned to the two, who shot him with a wary look. Jon gave them a suspicious glare.

“What.”

“Did you shout at Martin again? I know you don’t like him but I’ll rat to HR if you-” 

“I did not!” Tim shushed him, and he crossed his arms defensively. “What are you two on about?”

Heavy footsteps thundered behind him, and he turned around to see Martin holding a fresh cup of tea. The man’s face was… blank, that’s the only word Jon could come up at the moment. He looked up at Jon as if only noticing him now, giving an insincere smile before sitting back behind his desk. Sasha and Tim broke up their huddle and returned to their own stations, looking away.

_What the hell?_

He didn’t do anything to Martin, aside from telling him to hurry up with the reports he needed for a statement he has yet to record. For an assistant with more than a decade experience in the institute, Martin’s reports read like an intern still feeling around the system. Jon has already given him an example to follow, and if it came with some harsh words… well…

Jon marched to his office and closed the door behind him, rubbing his chest. Martin is a grown up, and if he can’t handle some criticism on his work, he shouldn’t have worked in academia.

_You’re being an asshole_ , a voice that sounded like Georgie reprimanded him.

He shook his head and pulled out his chair. There’s no point in worrying about Martin’s feelings now. He opened a brown folder marked with Sasha’s handwriting and started to read.

“Statement of Nancy Renz, regarding a missing friend.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:  
> A character reminiscing in places where they experienced trauma  
> Mention of death  
> Allusion to kidnapping

_ The sea reminds him of Peter. The smell of salt, the sound of crashing waves, cries of birds flying in the distance, and the persistent worry that if something went wrong, you will die alone in the vast waters. _

_ Martin watched the setting sun, slightly dimmed by the enormous fog enveloping the shore. He crossed his leg and smiled in anticipation. Despite his many shortcomings, Peter Lukas is never late when it comes to claiming his victims. _

_ Heavy boots slapped against the concrete slope up to where the bench he’s sitting, and the shift in the atmosphere was instant. One moment he could still admire the orange light painting the horizon, the next second he’s embraced by the gripping cold, the setting sun barely visible. _

_ He wasn’t lying when he said that the Lonely is comfortable. A gentle kind of fear, that encourages you to stay in its hold, to give up the fight and realize no one is coming for you. The acceptance is what ultimately devours you until you’re trapped. And Martin may slightly be masochistic, with how often he seeks it like a bad lover. _

_ But today, he’s not here to wallow in his overdue grief. Today, he’s here on a mission. _

_ Peter stopped on his tracks upon seeing him.  _

_ “Well, this is quite a surprise. Did Elias send you?” _

_ Martin smiled. “No, I’m here on my own. You must’ve heard about me, then.” _

_ “I don’t know what your business with Beholding is, but whatever you’re looking for, you won’t find it here.” _

_ He laughed. “Oh Peter. Are you pushing me away now? And here I thought I was important to you.” _

_ Peter stared at him in confusion. “Have we met before?” _

_ “Hm, I wonder.” Martin shook his head and stood up. “Maybe one day I can finally look you in the eye and not feel immense hatred for what you did to me and to Jon. But today is not that day.” _

_ The fog suddenly thickened, and Martin felt the cold comfort turn into icy vise grip. The Lonely seeped into his bones, carving out a hollow that he knew will never be filled again. He grunted, blinking against the fog slowly fading Peter away. _

_ He didn’t come all this way to fail, especially not to Peter. He’s had enough nightmares about his failures to prevent the apocalypse. _

_ Several tape recorders clicked around them, the whirring bringing about a static that makes him feel seen. He straightened up, watching as a man filled with eyes slowly approached them. Peter noticed him looking back, and just as he turned to see what caught his eye, Martin summoned enough power to see through the disguise of the Lonely. A tape recorder manifested in his hand, and with a quiet click, his recorded voice permeated through the place. _

_ “Statement of Peter Lukas regarding his death in the hands of the Archivist. Statement extracted from the subject on 25th of September, 2018.” _

* * *

It was weird to be earlier than Jon.

Tim has chalked it up to the nerves and pressure from Elias, but ever since they started working in the archives, Jon had been arriving early and leaving late. Hopefully he did something relaxing this weekend, and not take out his stress on Martin. Jon was a workaholic back in research, but not this bad. He sighed as he descended the stairs to their musty office, expecting to have alone time, and was surprised when he saw Martin’s bag already on his desk with a steaming mug of tea.

Martin is nowhere to be found though. Tim dropped his bag on his chair, poking his head on their small breakroom. It was empty and clean, just like how they left it last week. He couldn’t hear any movements from where he was standing.

“Martin? You there?”

He listened for any replies, but there was only silence.

Well.

Jon’s office is unoccupied, his lights off. Document storage then? He opened the door, calling out the other assistant’s name. Still nothing.

Where could he be?

Tim shrugged and went back to the break room to prepare his own tea. He returned to his seat and fired up his laptop, going through his priority list in his head. There’s still some books he needs to borrow, and compiling some reports he got from the police station regarding Mary Keay’s death. While he waited for the boot up, he sipped his tea, sighing at the warmth filling his insides.

The door to Document Storage suddenly opened, and he jumped as Martin stepped out with a bunch of papers in hand. Martin looked surprised as well to see him.

“Oh, good morning Tim. You’re early today.”

“Ah, yeah.” He pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the tea that sloshed out of his mug. “You were there the whole time? I was calling you earlier but you didn’t say anything.”

Martin grimaced. “Sorry.” He lifted his bluetooth charging case. “I was listening to something, I guess I got too engrossed to notice my surroundings.”

Tim smiled, waving him off. “No worries. You might want to drink your tea though.”

“Yeah, thanks.” He placed the papers on his desk and grabbed his mug, letting out a small sigh. 

Tim suddenly remembered last Friday, when he and Sasha left early to interview some leads on a statement. He remembered Martin’s faint panic at the idea of being left alone with his boss who did nothing but breath down his neck, but refused to say anything that might warrant another dressing down.  _ Oh. _

“Hey, uh. Jon didn’t give you more work to do, right? I think you got another interviewing assignment, so you can leave early today after-” Martin laughed, putting back his mug on a coaster. Tim felt himself blush.

“It’s okay Tim. I understand Jon wants me to do the outside work to get out of his face.” He didn’t seem to be disturbed by this, and it feels wrong to hear Martin just laugh it off. Just last week, he looked close to breaking down after another lecture from Jon. “I don’t mind, at least I get some fresh air.”

Tim should really talk to Jon, ask him to tone it down.

“Yeah? Don’t mind him, alright? I don’t really know what got him so crabby all the goddamn time but you don’t deserve his lashing. And if you get bored of doing recon just go straight home. No one will notice, I promise.”

Martin smiled, and it was the sweetest smile Tim has ever seen. “Thank you, Tim. I’ll do that as long as you don’t snitch.”

He raised his hands with a grin. “Snitches get stitches.”

Their conversation was interrupted when Martin’s phone rang, vibrating against the desk. He quickly snatched it up and answered the call.

“Hello?”

It was quiet for several moments. Tim couldn’t hear any voice or some kind of noise from where he’s sitting, but he understood from Martin’s sudden straightening that it was serious matter.

“I don’t even want to know where you got that. Are you looking for the house now?” He watched Martin grab his mug again, walking to the break room. “Don’t know, don’t care.” His voice became muffled when he disappeared from Tim’s sight, but he swore he heard him say “Elias can fuck right off.”

He went back to his computer, shaking the mouse.  _ Someone who knows Elias? _ He shook his head and opened up a new document to encode his findings.

Tim was just finishing the first page when Sasha opened the door, looking haggard as hell. Behind her, Elias followed in without a word.

“Hey super boss. Hey Sash. How’s the commute?”

Sasha grimaced, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “Don’t start. Where’s Martin?”

Tim looked back at the break room, and as if summoned, Martin appeared, phone clutched to his chest. He looked at Elias with narrowed eyes, before following him as the head of the institute turned back to the stairs. The remaining assistants watched them leave, before turning to each other.

“What the hell was that?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. Martin came in earlier than me, and knowing how much Elias loves his lavish office, he probably sleeps there.” He lowered his voice. “Do you think… Martin reported Jon?”

Sasha placed her bag on her desk, leaning on the mahogany surface. “I… don’t think Martin would do that? He’s so scared of Jon most of the time, that bringing it on a higher up would only make working here even more hellish than last week.”

Tim hummed under his breath, fingers lightly tapping on his desk. “That makes sense.” 

* * *

Elias’ office is, as usual, immaculate. Martin relished the memories of when he worked here, despite the constant dread filling him as a dead man walking. He was privy to information no one in the archives is allowed to know. For a few months, he felt in control. Of course it turned out he was being played all along, but still.

The head of the institute gestured to the chair in front of his desk, and Martin sat down without a word. He gave Elias a smile tinged with amusement, and this made the man raise an eyebrow.

"You know why you're here."

Martin cocks his head to the side. "Do I?"

"Oh, come on Martin. Aside from me and the Archivist, I generally don't allow servants of the dread powers to work in the institute. So what a surprise when I came in today and saw a fully realized one in my archives." He leaned forward on his elbows, coating his words with compulsion. "Why are you here?"

"What makes you think I will tell you anything, Elias? Oh, sorry, I mean Jonah." Elias narrowed his eyes, while Martin rolled his. “What, you love having your name plastered everywhere right? At least I pay respect to your work by acknowledging you.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Martin sighed. “I’m here because the Eye wants something from the tunnels below. Your archivist isn’t powerful enough to survive down there, so it sent me. After all, isn’t that the purpose of his assistants? To be disposable?”

“Pray tell, what does it want there? I have everything under control.”

“A man and a book. I don’t know who it is yet, but someone who can control the layout of the tunnels.”

Elias seemed to mull over this information. “And how do I know you’re not lying to me?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” He sneered. "Is that all you want to ask? I do have work to do, you know. Don't want to come back to Jon shouting at me for being inept." 

Elias waved his hand, eyes falling to the bunch of papers tucked under a paperweight. "Go on." Martin nodded and stood up, but before he could step out of his office, the head of the institute called out. "Oh, and Martin?"

"What."

"Don't get in the Archivist's way, got it? I'd hate to lose a valuable asset just because they don't know when to stop intervening."

Martin blinked at him, before barking out a startled laugh. "I don't take orders from you, Jonah. We may serve the same master, but you're not my superior." He smirked, before closing the door behind him.

* * *

Jon was waiting for him outside of the institute when he clocked out. He was dressed in a red button up and black slacks, casually leaning against a street lamp. If Martin didn’t know how he usually operates, he would have assumed the Archivist dressed up for a date.

“Had fun?” He asked, adjusting his messenger bag. Jon smiled, taking his hand as they crossed the street.

“Kinda. It’s nice to eat normal food again.”

“Do you even need to eat something that isn’t a statement?”

“Technically no. But when you return here, my baseline gets reset as well and I can enjoy simple pleasures once more.”

Martin snorted. “So dramatic. Don’t worry, I got some spooky food for you as well.”

“So how did it go with Elias? Not that bad, I hope?”

He sighed. “Oh, you know him. I didn’t say anything useful, but I guess he’s a little pissed, which is always a bonus.” Jon chuckled, squeezing his hand. “I told him the Eye is looking for Leitner. Don’t think he believes it but it doesn’t matter.”

Jon told him how his day went. It was mundane for someone like him: went shopping, then checked the house they decided to get, then ate in a small family restaurant before going to the institute to fetch Martin. It sounds… so normal, that it immediately set off alarms in his head.

When they arrived at the train station, Jon stopped him for a moment. “I thought you might want to check the house. It’s not totally furnished yet, but I got us a bed and some food and clothes for tomorrow.”

Martin nodded. “There’s electricity and water already?”

“Yes, the owner was planning to turn it into an Airbnb if it wasn’t sold by the end of the month.” He turned to Martin with a grin. “I know you hate taking cold baths, so I had someone install a water heater too.”

“My hero,” he smiled, linking their arms together. “Thank you, Jon.”

The house is located in Belgravia, of all places. Martin may have done this before, but he still doesn’t like living there. The poor boy from the social housing cringes at the amount of money being spent to live in that extravagant place, but it’s suited for what they need. Turns out, being obscenely rich affords a level of privacy that middle class workers will never experience. 

The living room was wide and bright, bathed with white light from what he thinks is a new ceiling lamp. From the front door, he could see the floor to ceiling glass windows overlooking the busy street. It was quite massive, but he could attribute it to its emptiness. Martin grinned when he saw a mattress on the ground covered with a granny squares quilt and two memory foam pillows. Jon must’ve had a hard time moving these stuff around, what with his scrawny body and penchant for refusing help.

“I’ll order Indian for dinner.” He announced while removing his scarf and coat. Jon grabbed his bag to deposit it on the floor near the mattress. “There’s statements in there, feel free to grab all of them.”

“Thank you. I’ll make some tea for us.”

When the food arrived, they ate sitting side by side on the floor. Jon quietly read his statements while spooning some rice to his mouth, and Martin replayed his day while munching on some prawns. After Jon put down the statement, he grabbed his mug with one hand and held Martin’s hand with the other.

“By the way, the basement’s ready.”

“Oh?” Martin turned to him with a smile. “I’ll be out for a follow up interview tomorrow, maybe I can snag one for housewarming. Naomi Herne won’t be in until next year so I don’t have to worry about live statements.”

“Be careful, alright? Text me what time you’ll go out so I can come with you.”

"Okay, might need help wrangling it home." He lifted Jon’s hand to his lips and kissed the pockmark scars on his skin. “Thanks for arranging it early. I still don’t know how you persuaded someone to let you have their house or have someone install a water heater without spending a penny.”

Jon laughed. “Best you didn’t know then. Do you want to see the basement now? Just in case I missed something, we can get it tomorrow.”

Martin nodded and stood up, grabbing their takeout containers and dumping them on a trash bag. He washed his hands and followed Jon, who opened an inconspicuous door on the kitchen floor. The Archivist descended the narrow stairs, telling him to be careful. Martin placed his hand on the wall to help him balance, his eyes adjusting to the still dark basement. Jon reached the last step and flicked a switch on the wall, filling the room with muted yellow light.

In a corner, sacks of cement, gravel and construction sand piled halfway up the wall. A shovel and a pickaxe rest against the stack. Beside it, a metal shelf holds a bunch of wires and polysteel rope, his favorite. There’s also three gallons of gasoline, sealed tight and to be used in emergencies only. Around the room, eight hollows were carved on the walls, ready to be filled.

Martin slowly walked around, remembering his previous works in this place. Last time was too late to use this house, so he had to make do with the panopticon which was far from ideal. He can still smell the rotting corpses and the toxic fumes from the burning petrol.

Jon stood at the center of the room, smiling. Just like how he always positions himself for the ritual. Oh, the memories are too much, filling him with childish giddiness. “How is it?”

He grinned and walked to the center, hugging the Archivist. 

“It’s perfect.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:  
> Canon typical body horror  
> Claustrophobia  
> Death by crushing  
> Threats of violence and murder  
> Injuries  
> Cursing  
> Kidnapping

_The walls of the underground tunnels felt like it was closing against him, his harsh pants echoing with his every step. The book was heavy under his arm, and despite knowing he’s safe from what was chasing him, the adrenaline pumping through his veins kept him alert. When he reached the Panopticon where Magnus’ body lies under a pale light, he gave a sigh of relief. From here, it was impossible to track him now._

_He sat down on the stone steps leading to the center of the former Millbank prison, slowing his breath to avoid making noise. Jurgen Leitner was positive that he had never seen that man before: tall and wide with round face and doe eyes, but he knew, oh he knew, that this man was a servant of Beholding. No one could navigate these halls like they knew it like the back of their hands unless that person belongs to the Institute’s patron._

_He didn’t want to risk being caught and brought to Elias. Ever since Gertrude’s death, his paranoia was off the charts for good reason._

_So he did something out of panic: he used the book to close the walls on the man as fast as he could, granting him immediate and painless death. The loud cracking of cement against crushing bones and the sharp smell of blood was enough to get him running. He would need to clean that up once he’s sure no one else would follow._

_A loud tsk rang behind him, and someone hidden by the shadows spoke._

_“You shouldn’t have done that.”_

_Jurgen jumped out of his seat, backing away. “Who are you?!”_

_A man slowly walked out of the darkness, and he gasped in terror as the light bathed the intruder. He, no, it was filled with eyes moving around independently of each other, its salt and pepper hair flowing down to its elbows, dark green cardigan stained with what Jurgen hoped was not blood. Its mouth opened, and a lone eyeball fell from its tongue._

_Jurgen screamed and ran back to the tunnels, only to bump on something solid and landed on his bum. The book fell and skidded away from his grasp, and he looked up to see what blocked his escape._

_“N-No…”_

_It was the man with doe eyes, face dripping with blood from the open wounds on his forehead. His face was definitely broken, nose bent and swollen and Jurgen could see that his eyes weren't aligned. His body was twisted in an unnatural way, like parts of him caved in. His right shoulder is dislocated, arm hanging uselessly, but he stood there as if nothing was wrong, glaring down at him._

_“You fucking piece of shit!” The man kicked him in the face, the sudden heavy force sending Jurgen flying. “You just can’t resist using that damn book, huh?!” His heavy footsteps stopped near his head, and he flinched hard, daring to move away._

_“What do you want from me? I don’t have anything valuable, please-”_

_The man grabbed his hair and pulled him close to his mangled face. “Shut. Up. God, Gerry was right, you’re fucking pathetic.” He tried to hide away from this maniac, who was now bleeding profusely from his mouth. “I should give you a taste of your own medicine. Trap you in these walls, closing them around you slowly so you’ll feel each of your bones breaking, each of your muscles bursting from the pressure. It will hurt so much you’ll wish I killed you fast instead.”_

_“P-Please… no…”_

_He breathed heavily, every inhale slick with the blood probably flooding his lungs. Jurgen dropped to the ground as he was let go, his potential killer grabbing the book from the floor, turning away and stalking back to the tunnel’s entrance._

_Jurgen desperately muttered a prayer, half expecting the walls to come close around him. But there was nothing, not even after his breaths stabilized. He cautiously opened his eyes, only to be greeted by the man with many eyes staring down at him, all of the pupils pointed where he sat. He held his breath in terror, cold sweat soaking the back of his blood splattered shirt._

_“You shouldn’t have done that.” It repeated, its voice laced with static. Its hand reached out to touch his face, and the last thing he remembered was an eye protruding out of its palm, looking straight to his soul, before everything faded to darkness._

* * *

The coffee shop was empty when Martin arrived. He ordered one black tea and one chamomile, and sat down on the table nearest to the door, setting his bag beside him. He pulled out his phone and scrolled to his contacts, pressing the call button when he found the one he needed.

The call connected after one ring. “Martin?”

“Hi Jon. I’m finished with the interview, you okay with going to the store now?”

“Sure. Do you need me to bring anything?”

Martin hummed and rummaged through his bag. Two bundles of rope, a wooden paddle, a roll of duct tape, aerosol spray and some matches. “Maybe your lighter? I don’t know if you still have it, though.”

“Yeah I have it. Same place?”

“Yup. See you.”

Martin smiled as he absentmindedly twirled his phone on his hands. Today’s going to be good. If he played it right, he would be able to go back to the institute before lunch. He closed his eyes and reached around him, feeling for an anomaly nearby. Normal people untouched by the entities were filtered out, there were some marked but didn't seem concerning at the moment, a few avatars hunting for their next victims. He made a note of their presence. Even if they appealed to him before as components for his ritual, it’s more trouble than he wanted to deal with. Turns out, people retaliate when they’re hurt. Who would’ve thought.

 _Jonah sure didn’t._ He snorted.

When his orders arrived, he placed the black tea to the empty seat in front of him. He should’ve ordered some sweets to go, but the idea of running around the city chasing someone with a full stomach made him grimace. Speaking of a full stomach, he’ll need to build up his stamina again. He was in the middle of consulting a shopping site for home gym equipment when the shop door opened.

Jon was wearing a black peacoat over white turtleneck and faded old jeans. He smiled when he saw Martin, quickly sitting down on the vacant seat.

“Looking good there, stranger.” Martin grinned, propping his head on one hand. Jon chuckled and took a sip of his tea.

“I have to dress up, else you get distracted.”

Martin narrowed his eyes and placed a hand on his chest. “How dare you. I don’t get distracted.”

“Oh yeah? Remember that one Unknowing where you just had to inspect the statues because your favorite actor went missing and you thought the circus took him? Even though he has no significance for them whatsoever?”

“Wow, I didn’t sign up for this slander. Finish your tea, I need to get back to work before Elias even thinks of looking my way.”

Jon laughed at the mention of Elias, but he did finish his drink quickly. They left the shop afterwards, briskly walking through the crowded street.

Their destination was an old boutique, selling antique jewelries and vintage dresses. A lone woman sat behind the counter, flipping through a magazine. Martin opened the door and stepped in, a chime above the door ringing loudly. The woman looked up from the magazine, eyes narrowed in suspicion at their arrival. Martin smiled and went straight to the counter, politely ignoring Jon flipping the open sign to close.

“Hi, I’m looking for a gold pendant.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled down his gallery. “My mum likes something like this.”

The woman took his phone, looking at the photo of a gaudy necklace with an oval ornament, a sapphire held in the middle. She looked up to Martin suspiciously, as if sizing him up.

“We have something like that,” she said a few moments later, her voice raspy. “I’ll go get them.”

“Thank you."

The moment she turned around, Martin struck her in the head with the paddle. She fell down with a shout, and he jumped over the counter step on her back.

“You little- agh!”

Martin unfurled the rope and hastily tied it around her wrists, tugging it back to tighten the knot. She twisted left and right, and abruptly stopped with a gasp when Martin unceremoniously sat on her back.

“You really don’t want to make this harder for us.” He said quietly, taking one of the matches and lighting one up. The smell of fire burning her hair made the woman freeze. “There, see? Wasn’t that hard.”

“What do you want? There’s nothing valuable here-”

Martin tutted, shaking the match to kill the fire. “Your lot really doesn't know when to stop talking. You’re just like your leaders.” He nodded at the Archivist, who held her down as he looped the rope around her feet, tying the end on the knot around her wrists. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to preserve your skin. I need you alive after all.” With another heavy strike on her head, the woman finally stopped struggling. Martin taped her mouth just to be sure. He stood up and sighed, packing his tools back on his bag. 

The Archivist dragged the woman to another door, stepping on her back. He looked at Martin with concern. “Will you be alright going back to the institute?”

“Hm? Oh yeah. I’m okay, and I did get the interview they needed.” He closed the distance between them and pressed a kiss on his cheek. “I’ll see you at home?”

“Take care, Martin.”

“I will.”

* * *

The archives were quiet when Martin clocked in. Tim was deeply engaged in whatever he was doing at his laptop, and Sasha is busy comparing two files. They both let out a distracted hello when they heard him come in, and Martin responded by dropping a box of donuts on Tim’s desk.

“Oh wow. Interview went well then? No spooky bullshit?” He opened the box and fished out two, handing another to Sasha who grabbed it without looking up from her reading.

“Yup. I’ll type up the reports and send it to Jon later. You guys want tea?”

“Yeah, thanks Martin.” Sasha said, waving her donut. Tim nodded as well, still munching.

The break room was Martin’s sanctuary before, where he could make drinks and pretend that the world isn’t so awful. It still is, minus the ability to pretend. The movements were practiced and tea preferences memorized by heart. He grabbed four mugs while the water’s heating and grabbed various boxes from the shelf. Chamomile for him, earl grey for Sasha, jasmine for Tim, and black for Jon. It was like meditation to hear the hot water pouring from the kettle to the mug, the steam warming his skin. After a few minutes, he took out the bags and placed them on a plate. Two teaspoons of sugar for him, one for Sasha, none for Tim and Jon.

He brought everyone their mugs, carefully balancing a small plate of donuts as he pushed Jon’s office door open with his hip. Jon looked up from reading with surprise, his usual irritation fading away at the sight of food.

“Here, eat up. I’ll email you the interview before lunch.” After placing the plate and the mug on the table, he left to grab his own mug still in the kitchen then sat down to start his actual work.

He lost himself into the words, amused at how he was assigned to work on a Stranger's case. By the time he finished writing the report, everyone was ready to get up and eat a proper meal.

Tim yawned and stretched up his arms, back cracking as he did. "Martin, wanna grab lunch?"

"Oh, uh, I packed one today. I'll eat at the break room later."

He shrugged and took his phone, waving Sasha over as they ascended the stairs. Martin checked his report for typos, before hitting send and putting his computer to sleep.

He was about to make another cup of tea when he heard a door creaking open. He looked to the side near the break room, where a yellow door now resides. Huh, he didn't anticipate Michael showing up this early.

He stood up and walked towards it, knocking softly to avoid alerting Jon. The door slowly opened, and long, sharp fingers drummed against the chipping yellow paint.

"Hey.”

Blond, curly hair slowly swayed near the door, blocking the dimly lit hallways of the Distortion. A young man’s face peeked out, cheeks slightly round and eyes a piercing blue. Martin gave a polite smile and waved at him.

“Sorry to interrupt, but this place is under my protection. I can’t let you hunt here.”

He didn’t blink, slowly tapping his nails against the wood. “I am here for the Archivist.”

“Yes, well, he’s under my protection too.”

“No.” Distortion shook its head slowly, and Martin could almost see its head turning upwards. “Why are there three Archivists here?”

Martin raised an eyebrow, confused. “Three? I only know two.”

“You cannot be lying.” It mused, head now completely upside down. “I know a lie when I hear one. But there are three of them here. Are you protecting them all?”

 _Well…might as well?_ “Sure. How about a deal? I’ll feed you in exchange for letting me use your doors.”

Distortion blinked several times. 

“Alright, but I cannot guarantee your safety once you’re inside.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I can handle myself, I think.”

“Well then, goodbye.” It waved its long hands behind the door, and Martin reluctantly waved back. By the time he stepped back, the door was gone, and another door opened. He jumped as Jon walked out of his office, an eyebrow raised.

“Who are you talking to?”

“Just thinking aloud.” He replied, laughing softly. “Don’t mind me.” 

* * *

The rest of the day was thankfully uneventful. He spent the rest of the afternoon picking out the real statements from document storage and filing them for Jon later. When it was time for him to clock out, he had to tamp down his excitement to go home.

He thought of the things he could do now he has a starting component. A protection for the house should come first, some sort of reinforced surveillance. Once he gets a second one, then avatars would think twice approaching him at his home.

The train ride passed by without him noticing, and he took a quick detour to get some food. When he approached the house, a sense of familiar lightness settled in his chest. He hurried inside, placing the food on the empty counter and quickly descending to the basement.

There were two chairs on the center of the room, a small lamp on the floor barely illuminating the place. The Archivist is sitting on one of them, watching the woman struggle against the layer of concrete holding her against the hollow of the wall. Her mouth is still taped, attempts at talking it out now futile. Then again, it’s not like Martin wants to listen. He has long forgotten how to forgive.

He sat beside the Archivist, lacing their hands together. Jon hummed, not taking his eyes off the woman. “How’s work?”

“Kinda boring, but the Distortion showed up. I offered the same deal, and they accepted.”

“Good.” Jon kissed the back of his hand. “We can probably start with placing wards around the house.”

Martin straightened up. “Huh? But I thought we’ll need a second one for that.”

The Archivist smiled softly, his green eyes glowing in the dark. “This one is enough. You really know how to pick them, Martin.”

“O-Oh... Hm, that’s good, that’s good.” He nodded and stood up, ignoring the thrashing woman. “I brought food, in case you’re still hungry?”

Jon nodded and stood up, leaving the lamp open. Together they climbed up the kitchen, closing the basement door without a care.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings:  
> Threats of immolation/burning someone  
> Implied decapitation  
> Alcohol consumption  
> Mention of human skinning and use of explosives  
> Dismissive mention of killing

_ “Jude Perry?” _

_ The woman with short crop hair and piercing blue eyes shot him a sharp look. “What does the pet of Eye want with me?” _

_ Martin politely smiled. “It’s about Agnes Montague. Or at least I think it’s her.” _

_ Jude’s casual aura turned cold and threatening. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve flinched from the whiplash.  _

_ “What the fuck are you talking about? Agnes is dead.” _

_ “Yeah, I don’t know about that. She’s been terrorizing me for weeks now. I recently moved into a cheaper apartment, you see. The last occupant said it was haunted, but I thought she was joking.” He removed his glasses and scrubbed his eye. “I haven’t slept properly in two weeks, so can you please… I dunno, take her away?” _

_ She assessed him with her deadly gaze. If looks could kill… well, it doesn’t matter. _

_ Martin sighed heavily. “Look, how about I give you my keys? I’ll stay at a hotel near my job instead. Just… please, make her stop.” He fished for his apartment key in his coat pocket, and handed it over to the quiet woman, reciting the address of a flat in Clapton. _

_ Jude stared at the key, before snatching it away from him. “If I found out that you’re fucking with me, I’m going to burn you alive.” _

_ He gave a wry smile. “Sure. I’ll come back tomorrow night. If you need anything else, you have my number.” _

_ She left without a goodbye, walking away briskly. Martin shrugged and went to the train station, intent on getting whatever scrap of sleep he could get despite the nightmares. When he arrived at his apartment, he promptly fell asleep on the couch. _

_ He didn’t know how long he was out like a light, but he was woken by a hand gently carding through his hair. He blinked away the sleep from his eyes and yawned. The Archivist continued running his scarred fingers against his scalp. _

_ “Did it work?” Martin asked with another yawn.  _

_ “Yes. Where did you get the idea of using piano wires as a makeshift guillotine?” _

_ Martin snorted, leaning towards his hand. “Beholding magic, I suppose. It doesn’t matter. I just need her out of the way, and maybe I can use her body to shoo Annabelle away. I’m sick of her cryptic phone calls.”  _

* * *

It was a cold, rainy morning when Naomi Herne stepped into the archives, a few wisps of fog clinging on her hair like a parasite. She looked around nervously, eyes darting against the shadows casted by the bookcases and drawers. Martin stood up to greet her, smiling gently.

“Hi, are you here to make a statement?”

“Y-Yes,” she whispered, carefully sitting on the plastic chair in front of his desk. “Um, do I need to… uh, fill up a form or…?”

Martin grabbed a typical statement sheet and handed her a pen. “If you’re not comfortable with it, you can use a pseudonym. But we may need your contact number just in case a follow up is needed. Would you like some tea?”

Naomi nodded and shakily filled the blanks while he prepared a mug and hot water. After the tea had steeped nicely, he placed the mug by her elbow. Martin took the form and skimmed through the details.

"Alright… Miss Naomi Herne?" She nodded as she brought the mug up to her lips. Martin grabbed a recorder and slid a new tape, smiling at the confused look she gave the instrument. "Oh just some stupid policy. The archives are quite a disarray for now and we have strict rules to use these, even though it's going to be a pain in the ass later on. Okay, so… statement of Naomi Herne regarding…?"

“About the events following the funeral of my fiance, Evan Lukas.”

“Statement recorded January 13, 2016.” He nodded. “Take your time.”

Martin has heard this statement several times that he’s sick of hearing it. But he has sympathy for every victim of the Lonely, and he’s made it a personal mission to be a pain in the ass for every Lukas he encounters. Evan was never going to end up happy, not with his family cursed to serve the Forsaken. That’s why he’s willing to sit through this every time, and to help Naomi shake off the tendrils of the fog that followed her for days now.

She fidgeted as she ended the statement. “That’s… it. So, what do you think?”

“I think you’re brave to want to try and find answers. Most people who give statements here just want to forget, to dump their burdens onto us and leave.” He took a post-it and scribbled his name and number down. “I understand that you’re still recovering from his death, but whenever you feel like you’re going to lose yourself in that fog, remember Evan. Remember your memories with him, when you’re the happiest with him. It’s the best way to combat it. And once you’ve healed, seek out and stay with your friends.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Y-You believe me? You know about this… thing that caused it?”

“Yes. The thing that trapped you in the fog is related to the Lukas family. It feeds on loneliness and isolation, and you happened to be the nearest target it could find. The best way to fight it is to have close bonds with other people. It can’t harm you when you have someone as… as an anchor, for a lack of better word.”

“How do you know this?"

Martin chuckled, gesturing to the entire office. From his peripheral vision, he saw Tim staring at him with furrowed eyebrows. “The archives are full of stories like yours. One or two statements would give a clue on how to deal with these situations, and I make notes of them to see if there’s a pattern of some sorts.” He handed the post-it to her. “If you feel like it’s coming back to get you, please call me. I may not be able to fully make it go away, but having someone to talk to that understands can help.”

She carefully took the note, quietly reading. Then she gently folded the paper and tucked it in her purse. “Thank you. I honestly didn’t know what I wanted to happen when I came here. I guess I want someone to listen, to believe.”

He reached out for her hand and squeezed it, looking her in the eye. “I believe you.”

* * *

When Naomi Herne left, Tim immediately jumped from his seat to corner him at the break room. “What was that all about?”

“W-What?”

“The thing you said to the statement giver. If what she said was true, how do you know that you didn’t give her, I don’t know, a placebo?”

Martin sputtered. “Hey, I know that we like to make fun of the stories here in the archives, but if for some reason my advice didn’t work, she doesn’t need to know, alright? I know what it feels like to experience something horrible and for no one to believe me.”

“Oh Martin,” Tim sighed, sitting down on a stool. “It just feels weird to give these people false hope.”

“If what I’ve read is true, then it’s not false isn’t it?”

He smiled. “Yes. But we’ll never know until we put it into practice, no? Schrodinger’s hope.” Martin snorted. “Hey, uh… you haven’t come across some statements about a circus, have you?”

“Hmm, a few related to circus stuff, but not a circus exactly. Like a, hmm, the calliope that’s in Artifact Storage? There’s a statement talking about that, but it’s also about clown dolls, so I’m not sure if it’s related at all.”

Tim froze in his seat, slowly exhaling. “Did you find anything that says how to combat it?”

Martin sat down next to him. “Not really. The most I could find is if you encounter anything that has, uh, evil clown aesthetic, is to get away from it and into an open place with many people. But you’re not asking what I found in the archives, are you?”

He turned to the other assistant, who is smiling mischievously.

“What do you know?”

“I’ll tell you if you buy me drinks.”

“Deal, drinks on me tonight.” He stood up and rubbed his chest where he could feel his heart racing. “This is important to me, so don’t tell anyone okay? Not… not yet.”

“Sure.”

* * *

Tim brought them to a pub a few walks away from the institute. It wasn’t ideal to be so close to Jonah’s seat of power, but Martin has improvised many times to block out the other’s omniscience. They sat down in a booth far away from most customers, ordering whatever sounds good on the main.

“This sounds so pretentious,” he pointed at the menu. Tim laughed. “I’ll order that.”

When their orders were taken, the calming atmosphere of the pub seemed to fade away, and that coldness in Tim’s eyes returned. Martin cleared his throat, quietly feeling around to see if Jonah was looking at their direction.

He felt the gaze cloaking him like an uncomfortable blanket. He shuddered and pushed back against it, exerting his own influence on their little bubble.  _ This conversation is not for you, Jonah.  _

“Anyway,” he blinked as Tim turned back to him. “The circus. Anything you can tell me about it?”

Martin nodded, now comfortable with the Eye’s gaze smothered. “The Circus of the Other. Used to be led by Gregor Orsinov, now the ringmaster is a… an entity called Nikola. They’re kidnapping people to take their skins and replace them to instill a fear of the uncanny. That feeling in your gut when you know something is wrong, but you can’t pinpoint what it is. It’s what they specialize in.”

“But they…” Tim sighed, tugging at his hair harshly. “They didn’t… okay, don’t tell anyone, especially Jon. I don’t think I’m ready to make a statement. But I encountered them before. My brother, he was taken by this fucking circus. I saw him s-skinned, under the Royal Opera House, there was an entire place that looked like the old Covent Garden Theatre. He was standing in the middle of the stage when a clown, ugh.”

“It’s okay. Take your time.”

Tim bit his lip, looking away. “The clown took the skin off my brother. Underneath was, honestly I don’t even know what I was looking at that time. I didn’t know what happened afterwards, I just knew I was suddenly outside on the street, holding a flyer for this Circus of the other.” He straightened up and looked Martin in the eye. “That’s why I joined the Magnus Institute. If there’s even a lick of idea to get back at them, to even get back my brother…”

Martin nodded and took his hand, squeezing it the way he did with Naomi earlier. “I’m sorry, but your brother is most likely dead.” He stared down the table when he saw the tears fall and clutched Tim’s hand tighter. “I will tell you everything I know about them. But you have to promise me that you’ll only go after the circus if I’m with you.”

He felt Tim grip his hand back, arms trembling. “How do you know all of this?”

“They took something from me before.”  _ They took you from me before. They took Sasha from me before. They hurt Jon and Basira and Daisy, and I refuse to let them do it again. _ “I’m not really the type to let those things go. It became my job to know about them, to stop them from taking anything else if it’s in my power to do so.”

They held each other for a few minutes, until the food arrived at their table. Tim wiped his eyes with the back of his hand while Martin conversed with the waiter, thanking him with a smile. When Tim had collected himself, they dug into the food quietly.

“Were you planning on going after them?” Tim asked as he finished his meal and reached for the glass of ale. “You seem to have a plan.”

Martin sipped his own drink. “Yes, but I need to make a lot of preparations. Next year is what I’m aiming for, but it might be much earlier.”

“Well then, let’s hear this plan. You sound confident about it.”

He laughed. “Well, it involves a lot of explosives and fire.” When he didn’t elaborate, Tim looked at him incredulously which made him laugh harder.

“You serious?” He asked with a confused smile.

Martin giggled. “Yes, that’s it. But you know how much the Institute pays us lowly archive assistants. I’ll need an entire year’s salary minus my daily expenses to even get a crate of dynamites and materials for satchel charges needed.”

“Hm, not if I pool in my own salary.” Martin grinned and raised his glass for a toast, and Tim complied with his own smile. “But seriously, if you need help, just tell me. I… I want to be in on whatever you’re planning to do.”

“Of course. I think you’ll find blowing stuff up incredibly cathartic.”

* * *

Daisy wasn’t the type of person to easily trust strangers, especially not strangers who regularly give her anonymous tips regarding Section 31 cases. Martin Blackwood is an eccentric man who seems to know a lot regarding the paranormal, and if Daisy didn’t appreciate the information, she would hunt him down. He revealed his name after a particular case involving a man with eyes growing out of his body.

One Saturday afternoon, Martin asked if she’s willing to meet in person, as he needed someone like her to do a job. They met up in a well populated area, a Starbucks with enough people that he will think twice before doing anything drastic.

But Martin just sat on a table near the counter, a cup half-filled with coffee on the table. He smiled when Daisy entered the coffee shop and sat on the chair opposite of him.

“So, what’s this job you’re talking about?”

Martin nodded in acknowledgement of her arrival. “There’s a book I need, but it’s currently in possession of two people. They’ll most likely fight you to keep it. You can dispose of them however you like.” He pulled out a notebook from his satchel and picked two photographs, pushing it over to her side. 

A woman, around her twenties or thirties, with short hair and a scar over her right eye. The other, an old man with a thick white beard, and looks like any normal old man. Except Daisy recognizes the glint on his eyes. Not a vampire, but definitely something not human.

She flipped the photos and read the names written on the back.  _ Julia Montauk and Trevor Herbert. _ “Who are these people?”

“They’re hunters, or at least that’s what they call themselves. Think of them as freelance sectioned officers. They take care of those… hmm, monsters, in their own way.” He brought up his cup to his lips and quietly sipped. “I don’t really care about what they do. I just need the book they own.”

Daisy tucked the photos on her wallet. “And what about this book?”

“It’s a thick book with pages that look like leather, and some contents are written in Sanskrit. It’s fine if you read it, but do it at your own risk.” Yeah, she’s not reading that book alright. Martin slid a thick envelope in her direction, looking away.

“First half of my payment, you’ll get the other when you bring the book to me.” 

She took the envelope and slid it inside her jacket, before standing up and holding out her hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Martin smiled and shook her hand. “The pleasure is mine.”


End file.
